It may be Friday the 13th in the midst of a pandemic, but it’s been a good day.  The best by far in months, Mike affirms.  Maybe run-of-the-mill bad luck reverses 2020’s epic misfortune into something good.

No matter that COVID cases are skyrocketing nationally; no matter that political turmoil has yet to die down, despite Election Day having come and gone; no matter that the Atlantic keeps cloning hurricanes, Iota now barreling toward Nicaragua.

None of that is as important as his wife, the old Fairfax of fizzing energy and plans, coming back to her family.

She returned to him piece by piece, a kiss here, a bear hug there.  And last night, Mike had the whole of her—that familiar life-force in the same bed they’d had for their whole marriage.

Fairfax loved that old bed, hauled from house to house, a ponderous antique from her childhood. They’d replaced the mattress multiple times, but she would not let go of the rest of it.  Ancient frame, headboard, footboard.  A new coat of white paint every few years.  Though Fairfax insisted on calling the color “eggshell.”  She reminded him last night—almost time to respray it.  A fresh start for the bedstead.

For them too.

Yessirree, Hurricane Eta may have fizzled out over Jacksonville yesterday, but they had not.  The marriage has not.  He and Fairfax have endured and, some may say, won the battle against a bad year.

Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.

The familiar words from Ecclesiastes loop through Mike’s mind like a prayer on repeat.  A thankful never-ending affirmation of his rejuvenated marriage.  Fairfax present with passion, at long last.  No mind wandering hither and yon, no worries interrupting, interfering, tempting her away from him.

It had been months since they’d had this kind of connection.  Yes, they’d wandered around in this desert of a year ultimately to find refreshment in each other.  And an abundance of it, at that.

So abundant, so, well, luxurious, that he’d called out at work today, took some PTO, just to spend time with his wife.  Fairfax had made them toast and coffee, which they munched on while watching the river through bedroom windows left open to the cool morning.

Reaching for a second piece of toast, Mike had accidentally tipped the plate over and spilled crumbs onto the sheet.  Miracle of miracles, his wife had just laughed.  She didn’t spring up to grab a vacuum attachment, had not scolded him that cockroaches would be forthcoming, and it would be his fault when he found bugs in his bed.

Nope. Fairfax had scooted right into the crumbs and molded herself to his torso.  “I’ll wash the sheets, later,” she’d said, giving him a kiss.

Later, Mike took his blood pressure, though it wasn’t the usual day to do so.  The reading was good, perfect even, the best he’d had in weeks.  Not edging upwards as his physician had warned him, harbinger of a bad trend.  Cautioning him to watch his stress level during the pandemic.  And in the regular canyons and valleys of life, of course.

Mike certainly doesn’t feel any of that stress now.  He feels relaxed, content in his home.  With his wife.

Comfort made flesh. Her to him; him to her.

Visiting the Spiritual Director at the Cathedral had made all the difference for Fairfax, Mike was convinced of that.  His wife had shared with him some of what she had learned from this person, what was her name?  Heather?  Something like that.  In any case, the approach she took sounded sort of like new-age mystical thinking to Mike, but as long as it helped, he was all for it.

Fairfax had tried to explain to him what she and the woman discussed, how God is inside of human beings as well as out in the world.  This kind of thinking connected Christianity to other religions, like Hinduism and Judaism.  Perhaps even Islam.  Mike can’t remember exactly what she told him.  All he remembered was that his wife was excited about this discovery, or mindset, or voodoo.  Whatever you want to call it.

And in return, Mike was excited that Fairfax had started acting like her old self.  If it took meditation or biofeedback or magical thinking to help her do that, well, then so be it.

What Fairfax actually called her new…er…practice was something else.  Mike chuckles, thinking how she keeps correcting him when he calls it the wrong thing.  What did she insist he say? Some specific kind of prayer.

Contemplative prayer, that was it.

His wife sits in silence, eyes closed, in the morning and evening.  Usually on the back patio, facing the river.    Sometimes in a chair, sometimes on a mat atop the brick floor, legs crossed.

“The quiet house used to upset me, remind me of the boys being gone,” Fairfax had remarked recently.  “But now the silence brings me back to me.” She’d smiled.  “Or me back to God, I should say.  The divine inside myself.”

Whatever she wants to call it, this mystic stuff she’s doing, it’s all good. Because, Lord, is Fairfax beautiful!  Her new found happiness lights her up like a Christmas tree. She’s more stunning after twenty-five years of marriage than before; Mike hopes they get another quarter century together.

Time and again, he is amazed at how a familiar kind of beauty can just up and dazzle you all over again.  Beauty made all the more incredible because of what it has been through.  Sorrow, illness, depression slung at Fairfax but not sticking.  Beauty that triumphs.  That succeeds.

They might just emerge from this pandemic year stronger than ever.  Mike had said as much to Nancy and Dr. Redmond earlier today.  He was finishing up a run/walk and had seen them a ‘ways down St. John’s Avenue with their dogs.  He sprinted to catch up, surprised that he wasn’t more out of breath.  The new exercise routine might be working after all.  Getting in shape just in time to turn the big 5-0.  “Well, better late than never,” he’d said to the duo, when Peter congratulated him on his physical fitness.

The doctor had then asked after Fairfax, and Mike had replied that she was feeling great.  He held back from saying “thank you” to Peter for this change in his wife; though unspoken, his gratitude was real—he knew that Dr. Redmond had been just as helpful as the church in rescuing Fairfax from her particular brand of blues.  The way the hematologist watched over and corresponded with her, scheduling tests, checking results, adding and tweaking prescriptions (as he’d done at her last visit) was extraordinary.  The sort of caretaking which fortified, returned her to herself.

Something beyond the usual physician/patient relationship.

And it seems like that wasn’t the only relationship breaking with convention. Fairfax had told Mike that Peter and Nancy were friends again.  Sure enough, there he sees them together on the streets of Avondale, not wearing masks. Nancy had sworn to Fairfax that she and the doctor were done with romance.  They were buddies, plain and simple.  That it works best that way.  Their two dogs love each other so much, it was cruel to keep the canines apart.

But there is more, there’s got to be more to the…the bonhomie between them that Mike detected today.  After all, Peter saved Nancy’s job; at least, that’s what Fairfax said.  He stood up against the Board of Directors and refused to let them eliminate her position, or something like that. It ended up being very political, a fight among the doctors.  Courageous of Peter.  A real rules-breaker.

And romantic, Fairfax had mentioned to Mike, though she didn’t say this to Nancy. Who would think she was playing at matchmaking.  Again.

“Call me crazy for thinking those two belong together,” his wife had remarked, head resting on the tip of body pillow, “but how can you not love such a heroic gesture? He saved her job!”

And call Mike old-fashioned, but being a woman’s hero is just a hop, step, and jump away from being her sweetheart.  He thinks about 1990 on the University of Florida campus when he offered his dorm room to Fairfax as sanctuary from a serial killer. That’s what started it all.

The beginning of them, Mike and Fairfax, an unbreakable duo.

It’s not out of bounds to think it might happen with Nancy and Peter.  Slow, gradual beginnings were often the way of middle-aged romance.  Even those relationships that meandered a bit sometimes ended up stronger, thanks to their circuitous route.  At least that’s what Fairfax has told Mike over the years when one or another of his frat buddies was taking his sweet time proposing to a girlfriend.  “Rushing things is never a good idea,” she’s said more than once.

Yet all Mike’s speculation doesn’t amount to a hill of beans because, as far as he knows, Nancy is still engaged to Adam Ainsley.  He decided to quit asking Fairfax about the…well…non-wedding, because she said that she was through asking Nancy about it.  It had gotten tedious, trying to get her friend to make some kind of decision.  All her questions were met with an inscrutable expression, some kind of mix of regret and defiance on her friend’s face.  Similar to the expression of a naughty teen, Fairfax had added.

For days Fairfax had nudged Nancy for an answer. Had she broken it off with Adam officially? Meaning, in no uncertain terms, had she said to him, “I’m not going to marry you”?  If not, Nancy needed to do so. It was time to fish or cut bait.

Rip the relationship Band-Aid off with one depilating pull. That was Fairfax’s favorite metaphor to use about the Nancy/Adam problem.  Would there be a wedding or not? Bottom line is, her friend needed to make up her mind once and for all about the guy.

Yet, Fairfax’s nagging didn’t push Nancy one inch closer to resolving anything, so Mike’s glad she’s given up on that tack.

“It’s beyond my control,” Fairfax had said just last night.  “I’m not her mother, I’m her friend, and I’m letting this go.  I don’t have to clean up everyone’s messes, just love them while they do it themselves.”

Poor guy.  To be someone’s mess to clean up.  Mike shudders.

One thing’s for sure, Nancy’s not wearing the engagement ring anymore. Mike had tried not to stare at her bare finger when they were chatting today on St. John’s Avenue.  Yet, there it was, elegant and unadorned.  Her left hand stroking Chum’s fur and, for all appearances, not looking to add any rings any time soon.

He will have to tell Max that the engagement stone is still in absentia.  His brother had seemed inordinately fascinated by the ring, primo Art Deco design, he called it.  Kept saying he didn’t know how that Adam guy could have afforded it, until Mike told him that it was from Nancy’s family.  Max had seemed relieved by this news, and henceforth, his calls and texts to Mike increased.  Now, they’re on a daily, with Max fishing around for information about Nancy each time.

They’d last chatted the night before.  It was about ten p.m., and Fairfax had just popped downstairs to make a bowl of popcorn to eat in bed. Mike’s phone rang with the tune assigned to his brother.  (Jack had programmed it into his phone at Max’s request.  An eighties rap song, “Funky Cold Medina” or something like that.)

“Hi, bro,” Mike had answered, full of goodwill after an exquisite evening spent with his wife.  “What’s up?”

Max launched into vague chit-chat about Miami, the usual complaint about their mother bugging him, until he finally arrived at his main topic. Nancy, of course.

“Did she end it with the Atlanta dude yet?” He asked.  Max voiced some version of this question in every interaction, and Mike had grown weary of it.

So last night, he decided he was going to be firm with Max, tell him to move on.  He’d had a crush on this woman for nearly three years; if she had the remotest interest in him, he would have known it by now.  In fact, she’d chosen two other men instead of him to date; one to marry, even if that wasn’t going to happen.  His brother’s little pipe dream might have been a fun diversion at first, but now it had become annoying to those who had to listen to him drone on. And pitiful too, because, simply stated, Nancy was not into him.

At least Mike had thought so.  But something Max revealed last night shifted Mike’s reasoning.  Just a little bit.

“You know she kissed me back, right before I left Jacksonville?  Didn’t you know that?” His brother asked.

No, Mike had not known that.  That nugget didn’t jibe with his memory of Max’s exit out of Jacksonville at all, after months spent living in their house.  In fact, he remembered his brother saying something like he was so upset after talking to Nancy that day that he’d never come back to town.  Definitely, not a good romantic sign.  So a kiss, especially a responsive one, was news to him.

Max continued, “On my way out, I stopped by to see her one more time.  Didn’t I tell you?”

“Uh, no you didn’t.  But go on.” His Peter Pan brother never ceased to amaze him.  He managed to live a free and easy life devoid of commitments. Until he decided he wanted to commit.  Very specifically, to a particular person.

And when Max wanted something, he went after it. No matter how annoying, no matter how pitiful.  Max didn’t care.

His brother exhaled a heavy breath. Mike could imagine it wafting warm and cloudy past the phone, permeating the small guest house which his brother used as his art studio slash bedroom.    “I just knew Nancy wanted me to kiss her.  I just needed to try.  It was a kind of personal dare, you know.”

“How old are you? Thirteen?”

“Just hold on.  She kissed me back, I’m telling you!”

“Are you sure she wasn’t just being polite?  You know, just being…oh I don’t know…neighborly? There’s a difference.”

There was a pause.  Another deep breath.  “Mikey, I’m sure. I felt it.”

Max’s use of his childhood nickname, shirred him back to an earlier time. A time of youth and possibility, when Max looked up to him as the big brother, the one who knew everything.  About girls.  Who was a partner in minor mischief, like the times they’d TPed their neighbors’ yards.  Who could be counted on to commiserate about their parents.  Who gave reassurance that they would both find their ways in the larger world.

“Hmm.” Mike had replied, not sure what kind of response was appropriate.  He was ninety-nine percent sure Max was mistaken, but could there be the slightest chance Nancy might be interested in him?  Of course there could.  There was always a chance—big data had taught Mike at least that much.

Max thinks Nancy had kissed him back.  Maybe he was right.

So who was he, Mike, to be a naysayer?  To shoot and kill his brother’s big hope? So what if it’s kind of annoying?  Little brothers are always annoying.

“I told Mom, and she thinks I have a chance.”

Mike cackled then, causing Fairfax, who had just slipped back into bed, to raise an eyebrow.  “Of course Mom thinks you have a chance.  She’s your biggest fan!” he chortled.

And so out of touch with reality, it’s laughable, Mike wanted to add but didn’t.  Elderly Lucinda living with her sisters-in-law in that dusty old house.  Stubborn women all three of them. Case in point, Lucinda would not stick with the COVID safety protocols now; she and the aunts had been faithful in the beginning, staying home, wearing masks, but as the months wore on, they grew frustrated and started venturing out, masks falling from their faces. Never mind what Miami public health officials said.

Mike had preached to them over the phone—stay in, use the grocery delivery service, postpone doctors’ visits.  The reality of COVID could kill them.  They had the gall to chuckle and dodge his warnings with polite platitudes.  That’s one reason Mike was grateful that Max had returned to Miami, to eliminate their outings, or, at least, minimize and control them.

“I know you and I talk trash about Mom, but I tell you this: she knows a good love story when she hears one,” Max had countered, and Mike sighed and let the topic of their mother drop for the time being.  He was in no mood to explore the topic of Lucinda and love anyway.  He wanted to eat popcorn and watch TV with his wife.

Yet Mike’s mind has returned to Lucinda today.  Of course, his mother loved a good love story—she had lived one with their father.  He often told his sons that his primary purpose on earth was to keep her happy.  The greatest delight of Lucinda’s life would be for her second son to find a wife and give her more grandchildren. So encouraging Max in his pursuit of Nancy simply doesn’t mesh with that dream, for Nancy was far past the “children phase” of life. Luce should be encouraging her youngest son to find someone far younger.

Mike groans now, and it occurs to him that he can take a page from Fairfax’s book and just let his thoughts go.  Throw these worries about his family of origin into the air like so much confetti.  Because he cannot control them.  All he can do is be there for Lucinda and Max.  Hopefully from nearly a state’s length away.

“I think I’m heading back up there for Thanksgiving,” Max had announced towards the end of last night’s call, which set Mike on a lecture (okay a rampage, he realizes now, in retrospect) on why Max should stay put in the guest house. He should not even think of hopping on his cycle and bring Miami germs to Jacksonville.  Max was needed there to watch over Luce, and Dolores, and Raquel. Mike repeated the CDC guidelines until he was almost hoarse.

Those are the women he needs to have a relationship with now.  Not Nancy Plumb.  Watch after the females in his family.  He has a gracious feminine plenty already.  Be thankful for that. Mike had ended his diatribe with this message, a none too kind one, he realizes now.

It’s too much to handle right now—this role of paterfamilias. The scolding and the lecturing of his brother, his mother.  Mike ends up nearly yelling at them a lot of the time now during phone calls.

Like last night.  When Mike told Max that the females who wanted him were in Miami—not Jacksonville—his brother ended their conversation with a curt, “Yep,” then hung up.

Dang it.  Max could slip away from Miami so easily, land on their doorstep Thanksgiving Eve, CDC be damned.  After all, if he wants something, he goes after it.

And Nancy is some kind of fuel to Max’s flame, that’s for sure.  The barest kindling with hardly a spark, but fuel all the same, as far as his brother is concerned.

She kissed him back.

It occurs to Mike that Max could even show up today, Friday the 13th.  It would be just like him to hop on his Harley and head for Jacksonville, to thumb his nose at Mike’s warning.

You tell me ‘no’? Watch me do it anyway!

And what can Mike do about it anyway? Absolutely nothing. You can’t stop a grown man from doing what he wants to do.  Even if you are his brother.  And you know better.  And you want to keep everyone safe, but no one will listen. Neither mother nor brother.

Mike sighs.  Dang Lucinda and Max.  Wandering around like babes in the wilderness.  He can’t protect them.  All he can do is pray for them to stay safe; his ranting and raving and worrying are useless.

Cast your cares like confetti to the air.

At least, here in his home with his own family, the bubble of good luck and bonhomie feels strong.  His synergy with Fairfax will endure, Mike knows this like he knows good data.  If they are lucky, this protected feeling, this safety will last the duration.  Even strengthening when the boys come home next week for Thanksgiving.  They’ll probably have to quarantine in their bedrooms, best practice, but that’s no trouble.  It’s simply a recalibration of sorts, and that too, can strengthen the Figueroas as a family.

A cord of four strands is not quickly broken. 

Bring it on, COVID.  We’ve got this.